


Like Me

by deripmaver



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Aleron is a Bad Dad, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Auguste suffers for 11.5k words, Bittersweet Ending, Canon-Typical Archive Warnings, Catholicism, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Nicaise (Captive Prince) Lives, Nicaise is Auguste's Son, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Guilt, The Regent is a Priest, no one dies tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deripmaver/pseuds/deripmaver
Summary: Laurent came to Auguste, trembling like he was dying.(“It’s about Nicaise,” Laurent gasped, hand rattling in Auguste’s, “It’s about me.”Auguste’s heart thumped heavily in his chest. A million thoughts flashed through his head – an accident, Laurent had gotten someone pregnant, Nicaise was in the hospital-Laurent continued, voice barely above a whisper, “It’s about Uncle.”And the bottom dropped out of Auguste’s stomach. )
Relationships: Auguste & Damen (Captive Prince), Auguste & Laurent (Captive Prince), Auguste & Nicaise (Captive Prince), Auguste (Captive Prince)/Original Female Character(s), Damen & Laurent (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Laurent & Nicaise (Captive Prince)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 200





	Like Me

**Author's Note:**

> one day i was doing my annual rewatch of the movie Spotlight while crying alone in my room and the thought came to me, "what if the regent had been a priest in the catholic church?" that, plus a few other conversations on discord, plus [maca's wonderful captive prince fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thickenmyblood/pseuds/thickenmyblood) inspiring me to write auguste suffering hard, gives you what we have here today lmfao
> 
> so fair warning, while the regent sucks always, in this fic he is part of the very real class of abusive priests who use the church to keep people silent. this is much more of a family drama than a serious look at religious abuse, though, so that's kept to a minimum.
> 
> i messed around with the ages a bunch to get the timeline to work out but auguste is 30, nicaise is 11, and laurent is 20. if you see any residual wrong ages im sorry LMFAO no beta
> 
> uhhhhh i think thats it. good luck i guess?

Laurent came to Auguste, trembling like he was dying.

Auguste closed the book he was reading, tugging off his reading glasses – damn things, he was only thirty, and his eyes were weak like he was an invalid old man – so he could stare up into Laurent’s ghostly white face.

“Laurent,” Auguste said, stiffening instantly, “What’s wrong?”

When Laurent was little, he’d crawl into Auguste’s bed after a nightmare, his eyes big and bluer than the sky on a clear summer morning. They were ten years apart, and Aleron had always been distant at best, so in some ways Auguste felt like Laurent’s guardian and protector. He loved the way baby Lulu would nuzzle into his neck, the way his breath evened out as Auguste slowly rattled on about whatever, becoming slow and deep as Laurent settled back into a peaceful sleep.

That felt like a lifetime ago – and yet, Auguste could not help but wish, in this strange moment, that Laurent could simply fall into his arms, carried as when he was a child, and be soothed back to happiness. Things had seemed so simple then.

“I-I can’t,” Laurent stammered. “I…”

“Laurent,” Auguste soothed, holding his hand out so that Laurent could take it. His slim fingers were like ice. “Whatever it is, I’m here for you. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

Laurent laughed, a sharp, ugly thing. “You’re too late, Auguste. It’s too late.”

That was what had become more familiar. Laurent’s interactions with him, sharp and biting, Laurent probing for nerves and when he found them sinking his fangs in.

It stung all the same.

“What do you mean?” Auguste said carefully.

“It’s about Nicaise,” Laurent gasped, hand rattling in Auguste’s, “It’s about me.”

Auguste’s heart thumped heavily in his chest. A million thoughts flashed through his head – an accident, Laurent had gotten someone pregnant, Nicaise was in the hospital-

Laurent continued, voice barely above a whisper, “It’s about Uncle.”

And the bottom dropped out of Auguste’s stomach.

* * *

This, Auguste thought, was the worst moment of his entire life.

Two years ago, the day Auguste was allowed partial custody of Nicaise, weekends only. His wife – ex-wife – cared about him, she didn’t hate him, so she sent him pictures as Nicaise grew. Pictures with her, with her parents, who had been disappointed in the two of them but doted on their first grandchild lovingly. In many ways, Victoire was the woman who had loved him the most of any woman in his life, except maybe his late mother.

It still wasn’t enough – and it certainly didn’t dull the sting as he looked down at his nine year old son and realized he was completely unfamiliar to him. The photographs and little videos of their family at Christmas had nowhere near captured Nicaise’s breathless beauty, in a way that reminded Auguste of Laurent at that age so sharply it hurt.

Unlike the wide-eyed joy of his little brother, though, Auguste’s son had his pink lips set in an irritated frown, and he pointedly stared down at his DS as Auguste welcomed him into his new apartment. Though he had the Delavere blue eyes, his hair was a dark, chestnut brown – had it always been so dark, when Auguste knew him as a baby?

“So, what do you like to do for fun?” Auguste asked, aiming for casual.

Nicaise’s eyebrows furrowed, a flash of something across his face before it disappeared. He pursed his lips and shrugged, not looking up from his game.

Auguste wanted so badly to make this work. His sponsor had said that Nicaise might be upset, that he might feel Auguste had abandoned him, but Auguste wasn’t fit to be around him before he stopped drinking. How could he make his son understand that? An eight year old didn’t understand alcoholism, not really, he simply knew that one day his papa had been removed from his life and hadn’t stepped back into it for years afterwards.

He wanted so badly to tell Nicaise he loved him, but Nicaise stepped into his house each weekend like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Auguste to disappear again. He didn’t put up posters, or bring books, to his bedroom in the house – it was like a liminal space that might one day vanish into the mist.

When Auguste bought him a poster for his room, Nicaise rolled his eyes, and took it back to his mother’s house to put up on his wall. He sent Auguste a photograph of it, and Auguste nearly cried.

Four years ago, sixteen year old Laurent had shown up on his doorstep. It was raining, and Laurent didn’t have a jacket. His golden hair stuck in soaked, darkened clumping strands against the back of his neck, his forehead. There was a blank look in his eyes and dark circles underneath them, and Auguste sometimes thought that it was pure luck that he was able to recognize him. They had not spoken in years – not entirely his decision, but here he was, shaking like his body was falling apart from the inside out.

When Auguste got him a cup of hot cocoa and wrapped a blanket around him, he began to realize that Laurent was different, a changeling child on his doorstep. When Auguste spilled hot water over his fingers, Laurent bit out a cruel laugh, and Auguste blinked, bemused.

It was obvious to him that something was wrong, that something had happened to change his little brother from a sweet, bookish darling to a writhing pit of anger and viciousness. Sixteen year old Laurent, sullen and morose, and when Auguste tried his best to help, Laurent sunk his claws in with a bitten out laugh of, “You couldn’t even parent your own _son_.”

What had it become so strained, between them? What had happened in the six long years since he’d seen his brother that had turned him so cruel?

Eight years ago, Victoire shouted in his face that he wasn’t safe to be around their toddler, that she was moving back in with her parents, and that if he didn’t deal with his drinking problem she’d get a fucking restraining order. He started going to AA that week. He hadn’t realized it had gotten so bad.

Eleven years ago, Aleron screamed that he didn’t know what happened to the boy he’d raised, that they’d gone to church every week and Auguste had gone on to fuck some common whore, that he’d humiliated their family by bringing about a bastard-

And Auguste said, “My child won’t be a bastard if I marry Victoire, Papa.”

And Aleron had struck him hard across the face, eyes icy cold, and Auguste was reminded that his father was a politician and that appearances were tantamount in his eyes – so he left.

Laurent had cried so hard Auguste thought he might be dying. He held him close, said he was sorry. Laurent begged and pleaded for him to let him leave with him, but Auguste knew it would be better, safer for him to stay financially secure with their father. Laurent sobbed, and clung to him, ten years old and pretty as an angel.

“You swore you’d be there for me,” Laurent wept, on his knees with the force of his sobs, but Auguste couldn’t bear to look at their father any longer.

“I will,” Auguste assured him, Auguste lied. He was angry. For the first time, Laurent was seeing the cracks in his golden, big-brother facade. He’d always been so good at hiding his darkness from Laurent, but finally Laurent was learning the truth.

The way Laurent looked when Aleron finally, bodily forced him away was the worst thing Auguste had seen in his life.

And then-

(“You fucking took him to church?” Auguste was screaming into the receiver of his cellphone, so angry he thought his heart might stop, his fists might crush his phone into glass and dust. “When we were together, I had one rule, one fucking rule Victoire! We don’t take Nicaise to church!”

Victoire sounded close to tears, “I knew you found it oppressive, but I didn’t want to force that choice on Nicaise, not when he was so young! I didn’t see the harm-”

“ _Didn’t see the harm_?” Auguste roared, “Now look what’s fucking happened! How long, how long did you leave him with my uncle?”

“Auguste-”

“ _How long, Victoire_?”

“What was I supposed to fucking do?” Victoire shrieked, and it pierced Auguste right down to his bones. “Where were you, Auguste? Where were you? You could barely handle him two days a week! Sometimes, I needed to work late, and Maman and Papa weren’t around to look after him. When Father Delavere offered to look after Nicaise those days, I could have wept with relief. He looked into my eyes, and he told me that I didn’t need to worry anymore, and I trusted him, Auguste, I fucking trusted him!”

“I didn’t,” Auguste managed, realizing too late he’d taken his anger at his uncle out on Victoire, but just like the drink or the pregnancy there was no way to take it back now. “If you’d just told me-”

“Told you?” Victoire laughed, and Auguste heard it now, heard that she was crying. “Don’t act like you’re my husband now, Auguste. You weren’t there, and I needed help, and I _trusted him_.” Victoire sobbed over the phone, a horrible, gut-wrenching thing. “And you come here like you fucking knew this would happen, like this is my fault. _Fuck you._ ”

Auguste inhaled, sharply. He couldn’t speak.

After a long, lingering silence, Victoire sobbed again. She spat over the phone, “Don’t fucking call me again, Auguste. I hate you, I fucking hate you.”

The phone beeped in his ear. She had hung up.)

Sixteen years ago, Auguste saw his uncle, Father Richard Delavere of the Metropolitan Archdiocese of Paris, for the very last time.

While he was awake, at least.

* * *

_I’ll fix this,_ Auguste thought.

“Monsieur D’Akielos,” Auguste nodded, taking the firm, bronze hand in his own and giving it a sharp shake.

The man in front of him wasyoung, handsome. He looked more like a male fitness model than a head reporter with Le Monde, especially when he grinned, showing sparkling white teeth, and said, “Please, call me Damen.”

“Damen,” Auguste nodded, voice unusually quiet.

Laurent was across the way from him, eyes hollow and empty, unfocused into the mug of black coffee clenched in his trembling fingers. Auguste wondered if they’d always looked like that, and Auguste had simply never noticed. How could he not have noticed? He knew Laurent’s eyes like he knew his own – how could he not have noticed?

“I’ve known your brother for the past few years,” Damen said, nodding towards Laurent, who smiled, weakly. “We’ve been working on a story against the Parisian Archdiocese for a while, now. Laurent’s spoken about you a lot. I’m – I’m sorry about this. About Nicaise.”

Auguste thought he might be sick. Nicaise was still with his mother, and they were trying to get him to talk to someone, but he would not. He simply sat there in silence, staring into the floor. Auguste didn’t know if it was fear, shame – the crushing agony of trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.

Laurent burst out, “I’m sorry, Auguste, I’m so sorry. If I had just told papa when it happened, but uncle is… He is…”

“Papa wouldn’t have believed you.”

It came out in a rush, and Laurent reeled back, as though Auguste had hit him. He blinked a few times in sharp succession, and Auguste saw Damen’s hand grip Laurent’s back, an expression of concern across his handsome face.

Auguste cursed himself.

“I mean,” he tried, “I didn’t – it’s not your fault.”

It didn’t quite fix it. Laurent still looked shaken, and Auguste began to pinpoint the reaction to abuse in all of his anger, his outbursts as a teenager. He saw the path of Laurent’s life stemming from that moment in time, the way it colored every aspect of it, of him, and he wanted to blot it away like he would Laurent’s tears when he was a child.

How did he not notice?

“It’s not your fault,” Auguste said softly, “It’s mine. I-”

“No,” Gasped Laurent, looking horrified, “No, Auguste. You couldn’t have-”

“Alright,” Damen said, firm but gentle. “Alright. This is tough for everyone, I understand. I really do. But we need to focus here – and we need to understand that what happened was that a terrible person took advantage of your trust, and the systems surrounding him let him get away with it.” He looked at Laurent, then, and the way he looked at him was like Laurent was the only other person in the world. “But we won’t let him get away with it, not anymore.”

Auguste swallowed and tried not to burn at the way Laurent looked at Damen. There had been a time when Auguste was the one who would comfort his brother, but it was so long ago it seemed like a distant memory, a faded photograph crumpled up between the pages of a half-read book.

He asked, trying not sound too bitter, “Is there a reason we’re speaking to the press and not to a lawyer?”

Laurent exhanged a glance with Damen, biting his lip nervously, like they were sharing a secret. He admitted, “I… Tried to go to a lawyer. Two years ago.”

Auguste didn’t even bother asking Laurent why he’d never told him. He knew the answer, but it hurt too much to say out loud.

“He offered me a lump sum in exchange for a gag order from me,” Laurent breathed, voice hot with anger. “And then… Then I met Damen. And I thought there might be another way.”

“There is another way,” Damen reassured him.

Auguste swallowed. “And… And Nicaise.”

Laurent’s face fell. He breathed, “I’m so, so sorry. T-the minute I found out, I…”

“You were brave,” Damen cut in, and Auguste gnashed his teeth, not quite sure why that made him angry. “It’s hard to speak up. There’s so much guilt, so much shame.”

Auguste’s stomach clenched.

Laurent nodded. His eyes were dry, but he was shaking. Auguste remembered how easily he’d cried as a child, and he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Laurent cry – that almost seemed wrong, somehow.

“It’s not your fault,” Auguste breathed, again. It was his fault, not Laurent’s.

Damen said, half to him and half to Laurent, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now. How about I leave the two of you to talk about it for a bit?”

“That’s alright,” Laurent sighed, and Auguste’s voice got stuck in his throat. “It’s alright. I’ll need to go pick up Nicaise soon anyway. Thanks for coming over, Damen.”

He stood, shakily. Auguste felt very cold.

Laurent turned to him and smiled. It looked so different than the smile Auguste remembered, and he wondered how he’d managed to let it get this bad.

He was always wondering how he’d managed to let it get this bad.

* * *

Auguste was just pulling a quiche out of the oven when the door slammed open and the clattering, intentional storming footsteps of eleven year old Nicaise echoed through the house.

“Fuck you both!” Came the prepubescent voice, thick with anger. “Fuck you!”

“Hey,” Auguste tried, as the bouncy curls of his son bounded through the kitchen, “I got ice cream for-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Nicaise spit at him, and Auguste took an involuntary step back, affronted.

“Language!” he gasped, and was rewarded by Nicaise’s raised middle finger right in his face.

The door to Nicaise’s room slammed shut.

Laurent puffed out a laugh, leaning against the kitchen wall. He had a smile on his face, the most genuine smile Auguste had seen in a long time.

Auguste smiled back. “You like him, don’t you?”

Laurent stiffened, as though caught in a shameful secret. Then, though, he relaxed, and his smile broadened. “I do. Precocious little bastard. Reminds me of me when I was a kid.”

“You?” Auguste shook his head. He plated up a salad, which he knew Nicaise wouldn’t eat. “No way! You were the sweetest little thing. Never gave anyone any trouble.”

Laurent’s smile flickered. He murmured, “I was, I suppose, when you knew me. I changed, after Uncle.”

Auguste froze. Laurent was looking into the distance, at something that wasn’t there, but his words cleaved clean through Auguste’s gut.

“I still love you,” Auguste said.

Laurent smiled again, serenely, disbelieving.

“I want,” Auguste continued, unthinkingly, “When we fought, when you were a teenager. I want. I wish I could go back and understand why it was happening. I might’ve acted differently, if I had understood. I should have acted differently.”

Laurent smiled at him, though it didn’t meet his hollow eyes. “It’s alright, Auguste.”

“It’s not,” Auguste pleaded. “It’s not. I miss it, how it was before. I miss being your older brother.”

Laurent closed his eyes. “You miss how it was before he, before I – before. I can’t go back to how I was back then, Auguste. That person doesn’t exist anymore.”

“I know,” Auguste ran his hand through his golden curls, agitatedly. “I know. But you’re still my brother. Nicaise is still my _son_. There must be something, some way for things to be like they were, at least a little bit.”

 _Please let me fix this_.

Laurent sighed, tiredly. “Just be there for me, for us. Don’t – don’t look at me and wish for the person I was before. _Especially_ don’t do that to Nicaise. He already wants so badly for you to like him.”

 _Nicaise_.

“I do,” Auguste whispered, “I love him. I just don’t know,” he swallowed, remembering the screaming fights they’d have when Laurent came home after curfew, “I don’t know what to do. I wasn’t even in his life for the majority of it. I-”

He cut himself off, shaking his head.

Laurent smiled wryly, “Sometimes you have to deal with your own shit before you can deal with anyone else’s.”

It was supposed to be a joke, a bridge through the tense silence, but all Auguste could think was a mix of _you were never supposed to see that I had shit to deal with, when did I get so bad at hiding it_ and _you’ve never talked about my problems so kindly before._

Laurent was reaching out to him. If he weren’t a failure in all regards, he’d say something kind back.

There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to say. _Laurent, if only you knew how far back this went, maybe you would have hated me from the start. Maybe it would be easier that way._

What came out was, “You know what? Fuck it. I’m going to bribe Nic with pizza.”

Laurent laughed, taken aback. Auguste noticed the slight unsurety in his eyes. He was sharp, and he’d recognized the deflection for what it was. Auguste felt cowardice on the tip of his tongue, but it was a taste he was used to as he knocked on Nicaise’s door.

No answer, of course.

Auguste called, “I’m getting pizza.”

A pause. Then, a tinny voice came from behind solid wood, “Better than your shit cooking.”

Auguste breathed a sigh of relief. He felt like he was plying a stray dog with food. He said, “What do you want on it?”

No response. Absolutely no response, and Auguste got the distinct sense that he’d done something wrong. He tried not to panic. They’d ordered pizza before, right? What had Nicaise wanted? _Damn,_ he really didn’t remember. But wait, what he remembered was-

“If you don’t tell me,” Auguste called, “I’m asking for la Royale with extra olives.”

“Ugh!” came the immediate reply, “Fuck you! Just… Give me a four cheese pizza. With extra cheese.”

Auguste bit off his immediate snap of _language_. As though he could parent Nicaise like that now.

Sure, he’d already made a healthy dinner, but pizza was the great equalizer, right? He’d taken that cooking class so that he could make Nicaise more balanced, healthy meals, but everybody fucking loved pizza. These were extraordinary circumstances, and maybe this would help.

Auguste sighed as he pulled out his phone.

Yeah, maybe this would help.

Nicaise’s door opened, and there was a cold glint in his son’s blue eyes as he murmured, “You know, Father Richard didn’t ever have to ask me for my pizza order. He just knew it.”

Auguste dropped his cellphone. It landed face down on the hardwood floor, and Auguste bit back a swear, cold permeating his gut like he’d been stabbed with an icicle.

His hands were tingling.

Behind him, Laurent’s voice came, icy and calm, “Yeah? And what _exactly_ did he make you do before he’d buy your silence with food?”

“ _Don’t,_ ” Auguste bit out, harsh and ragged. “Don’t.”

He couldn’t bear to hear it come out like this. Not like this, not bitten out angrily in an argument over _fucking pizza_. At his words, though, Laurent’s face shuttered, his eyes went from alive and angry to cold and distant.

Fuck.

How could Auguste explain the way that his stomach was churning? The way his body went rigid as he thought about how Nicaise could answer? How, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he thought he knew what Nicaise would say?

Auguste said, “I was gonna make quiche for dinner. Thought I might pack it up for you for lunch tomorrow.”

Nicaise’s eyes flashed, this time with something other than anger. Auguste couldn’t tell what it was, though a part of him suspected Laurent could. Maybe things would be better if he just let Laurent parent Nicaise – but no, but no. He had to try. How unfair would it be to divest responsibility to a struggling twenty year old?

Nicaise would never forgive him.

Laurent would never forgive him.

Auguste cherished their continued relationships with him so, so much, even if he didn’t deserve them.

Nicaise shrugged, looking down. His ears were pink. “Whatever. I don’t give a shit what you do. Your quiche isn’t even that good.”

He slammed the door shut again.

Auguste sighed, shaking his head. When he turned around, Laurent was still looking at him coldly, and he winced.

He opened his mouth, and Laurent shuddered, saying with visible effort, “Don’t.” Then, softer. “You’re going to have to hear it eventually, Auguste.”

Auguste swallowed, trying to ignore the cold feeling that prickled out to his fingers at the thought of listening to what _exactly_ Uncle had done.

Laurent said, soft and very bitter, “Don’t judge him for it.”

Auguste blinked, “I would never-”

From behind the door, Nicaise shrieked, “Stop talking about me like I’m not right fucking here!”

Both Laurent and Auguste winced.

Auguste bit his lip. “I’m going to order the pizza.”

Laurent nodded, brows knit together in a frown. He bit his thumb, and Auguste watched him nibble off a piece of the rough skin.

“You do that,” he said, and he managed to make it sounds like an accusation.

* * *

“Okay,” Auguste whispered to Laurent, “Please help me. Why is Nicaise mad at me now?”

Laurent spluttered, “Seriously? You need my help with this? I’m going to – you know what I’m going to be talking about later, and you’re asking me now?”

“I’m sorry,” Auguste whined, “I am, but I really don’t know. He didn’t speak to me all of yesterday. I thought – I thought things were good over dinner on Friday.”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “You don’t know him at all,” he hissed, and Auguste wasn’t surprised by the dig, though it cut all the same. “You said you would pack him up your quiche for lunch when he went to see his counselor. He really likes it, you know.”

Auguste blinked. “But – but he said he didn’t care. That it wasn’t even that good.”

“Auguste,” Laurent snapped, “He’s _eleven_. He didn’t mean it. And now…?”

“And now,” Auguste swallowed, enunciating every word, “He’s mad, because I said I would give him the quiche for lunch, but then I just went with him to buy him something before dropping him off.”

Laurent nodded, eyes flashing irritably, like it was obvious. God, Auguste wished it was obvious.

He remembered sitting down with the social worker his ex wife had insisted on, remembered her saying, “Nicaise might have started to think that because you weren’t a part of parenting for most of his life so far, you don’t care about him.”

And of course, now that was coming out through a fucking quiche. He’d said he’d give Nicaise quiche, and then he fucking didn’t, and now Nicaise was angry because he saw it as another abandonment.

 _Fuck_.

Not to mention that Auguste had been so preoccupied with how he didn’t have a breakdown while dropping Nicaise off with his therapist, thinking something bad might happen to him again, and it’d be Auguste’s fault.

When Nicaise was a baby, all Auguste had to do was scoop him up in his arms and cradle his teeny body, letting his little fingers wrap around his thumb. He closed his eyes and remembered his bubbly, high-pitched laugh, his gap-toothed smile, how easy it was to coax those out of him with a few babbled words or a sparkly toy.

Nicaise’s voice was still unbroken, and Auguste wondered if his laugh would still sound like it did when he was younger, when Auguste still lived with him. Nicaise hadn’t laughed, loudly, fully, in such a long time.

He laughed like Laurent did, now, only when it was about something cruel. Had uncle taught him that?

Laurent was picking at a cuticle on his nail. He pulled at it until a bead of blood pooled at his nailbed, which he stared at distractedly.

Auguste remembered, suddenly, the feeling of itching all over his skin, an uncomfortably prickling that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he scratched, dulled only by loud distraction or drink.

He said, uncertainly, the words coming from nowhere, “I don’t have to be with you while you tell Damen what happened. Not if it’ll make you uncomfortable.”

Laurent’s eyes were unfocused. “Damen already knows. I want to tell you, now.”

Auguste inhaled sharply. Ah. Right. “I’m happy you think you can open up to me. I just – why now?”

Laurent’s gaze hardened. “You’ll read it when Damen’s team writes his expose. I don’t want you to learn about it like that.” His lip curled. “I want to know what’ll happen when you know. Will you push me away?”

“No,” Auguste gasped, “No, never.”

“You should,” Laurent snapped, still not looking at him. “I’d deserve it.”

“Pushing you away is the reason why this happened in the first place,” Auguste snapped back, and Laurent’s eyes went wide.

The doorbell rang.

Laurent looked conflicted, mouth hanging half-open. With obvious effort, he forced himself not to respond, and he opened the door to reveal Damen, Hollywood handsome and grinning, though in a way that somehow didn’t seem offensive or out of place. He took a step towards Laurent, arms widening, and Laurent bodily stepped back with an unreadable look on his face.

Auguste narrowed his eyes.

Damen coughed, running his hands through his dark curls, and held up a bag of something warm and rich with butter, judging by the stains. “Brought coffee and croissants,” he said, walking into Auguste’s apartment like he lived there.

They sat around the kitchen table, Laurent picking at his croissant, and Auguste thought that was at least better than him picking at his skin.

He said nothing.

Laurent said nothing.

Damen sighed, putting a comforting hand on Laurent’s thin forearm, and said with all the tenderness in the world, “Laurent, do you want to begin?”

* * *

Outside the apartment, the air was crisp, cool, sharp and sweet. It was a beautiful fall afternoon, with the leaves on the trees outside ripening to rich golden hues, to oranges and reds bright as the apples at the Sunday market.

When Nicaise was old enough that he could toddle around, they’d go as a family, Nicaise holding Auguste’s hands through his little mittens. They’d wander through with the cold nipping at their ears and noses while Nicaise squealed for pastries from the stalls.

Damen stepped outside, too, blowing out a breath and taking in the city below. The sky was blue above, the sun a bright slice of lemon cake, and Auguste hated it. He didn’t want the sun to shine on Arles ever again, not after what he’d just heard.

“Seven years, huh?” Damen said, nodding back to the kitchen, where Auguste kept his sobriety medallions. “I’m sure everyone here is proud of you.”

Auguste couldn’t quite hide his scoff. Who was this punk, coming in here acting like he knew the last thing about Auguste’s family?

“I think you did good,” Damen said, and Auguste bit back his retort that he didn’t need a stranger telling him how to handle his own brother. Apparently, he did. “It’s hard to listen to.”

Auguste could picture it in his mind as Laurent described it – the woody smell of church pews, Uncle’s crinkly blue eyes and blonde beard scratching against the top of his head as he hugged him, warm and inviting in a way none of the other priests tried to be. He would slip him cookies with a wink, murmuring, “God will understand if we don’t tell your father about this one.”

He heard the emptiness, the echoes from two lone figures, a boy and a man, alone inside the church. Uncle taking his hand and saying, “Come to my office, we can play a game while we wait for your father to take you home.”

Auguste could picture it in his mind, uncomfortably close. Familial touches becoming more intimate, the line becoming more and more blurred as the afternoon wore on, the blend of appropriate and not blending together confusingly.

Inside, the bathroom sink was running. It had been running for a good few minutes now, and Auguste didn’t think he’d ever be able to get Laurent’s expression as he described kneeling in the office out of his mind, how he’d closed his eyes and pictured taking the sacrament instead of what was happening.

Damen clapped a hand on Auguste’s shoulder and Auguste started. The sink had turned off. When had the sink turned off?

The balcony door slid open, and Damen murmured to Laurent, “I’ll give you two a moment.” Then, firmly, but soft all the same, “Laurent.”

Laurent had probably opened his mouth to object. Auguste’s feet felt like they were stuck in place. He felt like a band was tightening around his chest. He could picture it all in his mind so clearly.

When Auguste turned to look at his brother, Laurent shuddered. His eyes were rimmed red, and his arms were wrapped tightly around his body. Had he always been that thin?

“Laurent,” Auguste said softly.

“Auguste,” Laurent murmured. “Why did you start drinking?”

Auguste blinked. “You’re not-”

“I don’t drink,” Laurent cut across quickly. “Both because of you and because – I told you about the wine he’d serve me. People don’t just start drinking like you did for no reason.”

Auguste blinked. He felt uncomfortably exposed, though he couldn’t quite figure out why.

“I felt… Bad,” Auguste said, frowning at how the words came out. “Wrong. It wouldn’t go away, except as a teenager, I got invited to a party. I had a few beers… The feeling went away.” He sighed, leaning back. “It was easy to drink as a teenager, and even easier at university. I didn’t even realize it was a problem until I was rocking Nicaise in one arm and nursing a glass of wine in the other.”

“But,” Laurent’s voice cracked, “Why did you _start_?”

Auguste frowned. “I-”

“I fucking _idolized you_ ,” Laurent snapped, “My perfect big brother. You were there for me when you know Papa never was. I loved you so much, and then one day you left. Just – just gone. Why would you do that to me? Did you never… Never care about me at all?”

Auguste swallowed. “Did… Did Uncle tell you that?”

Laurent’s silence spoke volumes. He bit his lip, not looking Auguste in the eye.

“I loved you,” Auguste said, “So, so much. I still do. I loved Nicaise with all my heart for all the years he was away from me. Laurent, I always tried so hard to hide the bad parts of myself from you. The nasty, ugly things that might make you sad, or scared. I fought with Papa for years before I left, and I’d come tuck you into bed like it had never happened. Suddenly – suddenly, though, I couldn’t do that anymore.”

Laurent wiped at his eyes bitterly. “So you ran away.”

It wasn’t a question.

“So I ran away,” Auguste whispered. He shuddered. He was cold down to his bones. “And I’ll never forgive myself for what happened to you.”

He put one hand on Laurent’s shoulder, and Laurent stiffened, before relaxing into the touch. When Auguste finally, tentatively, wrapped his arms around Laurent, Laurent latched onto him like a dying man, letting out a low, ragged breath.

 _Just like before,_ Auguste thought, _Just like before._

Laurent’s shoulders shook. He was crying.

Auguste wanted to cry, too, but his chest was too tight and his fingers were growing cold. The sounds Laurent was making were heartbreaking, and Auguste thought he’d been wrong before – the worst moment of his life was not being told in one fell swoop that his uncle had molested both his brother and his son, the worst moment was now, hearing the way Laurent’s voice shook and cracked as he cried about it.

It was gut wrenching. Auguste didn’t know if he’d survive it.

He had to, though. He wouldn’t run away.

Not again.

* * *

“Ugh, what’s the animal doing here again?” was the first thing Nicaise said as he grumbled awake at half past noon.

Dressed in his matching Star Wars pajama set, his childish roundness was even more pronounced – the softness in his cheeks and fluff of his hair. He looked like a little brunette Laurent, just barely older than Laurent was when Auguste left.

His expression was soft with slumber, and for a moment Auguste wanted to scoop him up like he did when he was a toddler.

“He’s here to help Laurent talk about what happened to him,” Auguste said, softly.

“We’ve met,” Damen grinned nodding.

Auguste felt a stab of fear. “What? When?” he turned to Nicaise, “Was he…?”

“Calm down,” Nicaise snapped, and his sleep-soft expression was gone, instantly. “He’s an idiot.”

“We went together to pick him up,” Laurent murmured, “On Friday.”

“You know how I feel about strangers around Nicaise,” Auguste hissed.

Laurent pressed his lips into a thin, white line. “Damen isn’t a stranger.”

“Ugh!” Nicaise snapped, “Still talking about me like I’m not here. I’m not a _child_.”

The words stuck in Auguste’s throat: _but you are a child_.

Nicaise would just get angry if he heard that, even though he looked it, the Death Star on his oversized shirt showing his still childishly rounded tummy.

“I don’t want Nicaise talking to anyone unless I’ve given it the okay,” Auguste said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice.

“Fuck off, papa,” Nicaise snapped.

“Don’t swear,” Auguste huffed, at the same time as Laurent snapped, “Don’t smother him, Auguste.”

There was silence, long and heavy.

Damen coughed. He said, gently, “I understand the impulse to protect him, Monsieur Delavere, but even in situations of abuse, it’s important to let your child grow and develop relationships as he would in any other circumstance-”

“ _I’m right fucking here_ ,” Nicaise shrieked. He picked up a fork left on the counter and lobbed it at Damen, hitting him square in the forehead, where it left an ugly red mark.

Laurent muffled his laugh behind one thin hand, and Damen shot him a look that was a mixture of a pout and a glare. There was something overly familiar about it, but Auguste put that to the side as he stood up to open the fridge.

“Nicaise, let’s get you some breakfast,” Auguste murmured, taking out a plate of cold quiche from the fridge and putting it at the empty seat at their little dining room table.

Nicaise narrowed his eyes. He very deliberately walked past Auguste to the fridge and pulled out a slice of cold pizza, plopping down at the table and making direct eye contact with Auguste as he propped his bare feet up and began eating the pizza with his bare hands.

Laurent and Auguste said, at the same time, “Feet off the table.”

Nicaise shot both of them a very dark look, but he settled back with his feet on the floor all the same. Auguste made eye contact with Laurent, and Laurent gave him a wry smile. Any smile looked lovely on Laurent’s face, after everything.

“Enjoying your pizza, buddy?” Damen asked, his winning grin still on his face.

Nicaise flipped him off. “I’m not telling you anything, animal.”

“We’re just talking,” Damen said, putting his hands up in mock-surrender. “That’s it. Doesn’t have to be about anything.”

Nicaise narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, like I believe you.”

He finished the pizza in three bites. Then, he began to eat the quiche with his bare hands, with great difficulty. Auguste let out a silent breath of relief.

“What do you have planned for today?” Auguste asked softly, leaning back in his chair. His eyes flit to Laurent, still staring off into space. If he brought attention to it, Nicaise might say something cruel – would Auguste have to punish him, then? How could he punish Nicaise if he was desperate to rebuild their relationship?

Nicaise made an annoyed noise. “Dunno. Not like you let me leave the apartment ever.”

Auguste frowned. “I let you – hm. Well, how about we go to the park? You can invite your friends – what was that one boy’s name? You used to go biking with him?”

“Ugh,” Nicaise huffed. “We’re not friends anymore.”

“Oh,” Auguste frowned. “Did you two get into a fight?”

Nicaise sniffed. He gave up on eating the quiche with his hands and began to cut pieces with a fork. “He was boring. Stupid. I didn’t want to be his friend anymore.”

Auguste opened his mouth to respond that Nicaise wasn’t being very kind when Laurent cut in, gazing at Nicaise intently.

“I don’t think he was stupid,” Laurent murmured. “I think you’re wrong.”

Nicaise laughed, cruelly. “He _was._ Kept wanting to do stupid, baby things, like ride bikes. I had better things to do.”

“I doubt that,” Laurent said.

Nicaise was _fuming_. “I _did_! I was Father Delavere’s favorite. I was too busy with him doing fun, grown-up things.”

The bottom dropped out of of Auguste’s stomach. He realized, as Laurent exchanged a glance with Damen, what Laurent was doing.

“Like?” Laurent asked.

Laurent’s voice was drippingly condescending, and Nicaise couldn’t help but respond, even as Auguste spluttered, “Wait a moment-”

“He gave me wine,” Nicaise smirked. “He said-”

Damen shifted, shoulders tense, and Nicaise’s eyes widened. The cruelty was suddenly gone from his eyes, replaced with a childlike betrayal that morphed into something so furious it looked wrong on his young face.

“You tricked me,” he shrieked. “You tricked me!”

“I just asked you questions,” Laurent intoned, voice flat and lifeless.

“Bullshit,” Nicaise snapped, voice cracking. Auguste realized in horror that he was close to tears.

“It’s okay,” Auguste rushed out, too late (always too late). “It’s alright. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.”

“Shut up!” Nicaise shrieked, eyes going red at the edges, “I said I wasn’t gonna talk to him! You tricked me! Fuck you, fuck you!”

“Nicaise,” Auguste said again – but it was too late. Nicaise stood, shoving the table away from him, and fled to his room. The apartment rattled as he slammed his door, shaking like an earthquake.

Auguste whirled around, glaring furiously at Laurent, who stared back defiantly as though begging him to say anything, as though Auguste hadn’t been trying to create an atmosphere calm and supportive enough for weeks to make Nicaise comfortable with opening up.

He grit his teeth, willing himself not to make things worse in his own home, and clambered up the stairs to knock on Nicaise’s door.

“Nicaise,” he called, trying to be as soothing as possible.

The sound of loud guitars and drums and melodramatic music blared from behind the door, and Auguste sighed. What was he going to do?

He heard, the sound carrying from downstairs, Damen saying, “You know I can’t use that.”

Laurent’s voice was clipped, surprised. Angry. “Why not?”

“It’s unethical,” Damen responded, sounding frustrated. “I can’t use a statement if he was tricked into giving it. He’s just a kid, I don’t want to…”

Damen trailed off, and Auguste imagined Laurent giving him one of his iciest, most terrifying stares.

“More unethical than _fucking children?_ ” Laurent spat.

A sigh. “Laurent-”

Laurent presumably said something else, though Auguste couldn’t make out the words. The front door slammed shut. Auguste’s neighbors must hate him, he thought, what with all the doors slamming and the screaming.

Auguste returned to the kitchen table. Laurent’s croissant was still in front of him, ripped to shreds, with hardly any of it actually eaten. He sat, heavily, juggling his concern over Laurent’s eating habits with his concern over Nicaise lashing out with his concern at his own frayed, crumbling familial ties with the people who meant to most to him.

Damen sat awkwardly, taking a sip of coffee from one of Auguste’s mugs. Auguste had half a mind to tell him to get the fuck out of his house, away from his family. He certainly wasn’t making things any easier.

Except, of course, for Laurent. Auguste hadn’t seen Laurent so calm and relaxed as he’d been with Damen since he was a child, bright eyed and giggling as Auguste carried him around the house on his shoulders.

What Auguste said, instead, was, “Does Nicaise need to say anything?”

It came out as a plea.

Damen sighed. He shook his head _no_ , running his hand through his curls. “No. Laurent thought it would be good to get him to open up, but now I’m not so sure.”

Auguste nodded uncertainly. He said, even softer this time, “What – what happens if he doesn’t? Will this report still stop Delavere from doing anything again?”

Damen was silent for a moment. “My hope,” he said, “Is that this report will force the church to take action. Open up an external investigation. I can’t – I can’t be sure, though.”

“What if,” August whispered, heart beating in his throat, “If Nicaise won’t say anything, would you need someone else to speak in his place?”

“We don’t need Nicaise to retraumatize himself by giving us testimony,” Damen said, a little testily. “We can’t force anything. We’re the press, not the police.”

 _No,_ Auguste said, _that’s not what I meant_.

He nodded, though, drumming his hands on the table.

“I should,” he said, voice strained. “I should go – Laurent.”

Damen shook his head, running one hand down his cheeks, jaw cracking as his mouth opened. “It’s alright. I’ll go after him. He just – I mean, you know him. He sometimes just needs time to himself.”

“Right,” Auguste said, flatly. “Right. Of course.”

Damen nodded at him, picking up his scarf by the door and wrapping it around his neck.

Auguste leaned back into the kitchen chair, closing his eyes as the door to his apartment shut.

* * *

Auguste woke in a dark living room with the sky the deep, luminescent blue of pre-sunset.

He woke with his palms sweaty, his heart pounding, and the distinct sensation that something was truly wrong.

“Nicaise?” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes and fumbling with the light.

The house was silent, for once, and Auguste took a moment to sit in the quiet. When was the last time his house had been so quiet? It seemed lately as though it was filled with shouting, with anger, with the residual shockwaves of violence trembling just beneath the skin.

He’d hated the silence, growing up. When Victoire said she was pregnant, that she wanted to keep the baby, Auguste imagined a household so much different than his own – no secrets, no ugly silences that swallowed him and made him want to scream. His house, his child’s house, would be bright with noise and laughter.

This wasn’t the noise he’d wanted.

“Nicaise?” Auguste called again, louder. “Laurent?”

No response, and Auguste tried to calm the frantic pounding of his heart. Nicaise was probably still angry, why would he respond? It was fine, it was totally fine-

Nicaise’s door was open.

Time seemed to move strangely after that. Auguste barely remembered frantically disemboweling his apartment, as though he’d find his son hidden in a laundry basket, like they used to play hide and seek all those years ago.

His voice seemed wrong to his own ears as he texted, called, half a dozen voicemails on Nicaise’s phone – and when he finally burst out on the balcony to find Laurent, he thought he might actually have gone insane.

Laurent and Damen were sitting on one of the cushioned benches Auguste had put outside, close. Uncomfortably close. Damen’s arm was firm around Laurent’s shoulder, his lips inches from Laurent’s forehead as Laurent leaned against him.

Laurent looked relaxed, calm, even though his eyes were still tired and drawn. That was the only thing stopping Auguste from ripping Damen bodily from bench and slamming him against the floor. Well, that and-

Auguste opened his mouth. Laurent noticed Auguste and he sprung up, flushed like Auguste had uncovered something dirty. Immediately his expression became guarded, furious, and his words cut through what he expected Auguste to say.

“You don’t get to give me shit for this,” Laurent spat, “You’re not my father, you don’t get to – you get no say in this. Don’t you fucking dare try to tell me, I’ve never had a real relationship and I feel safe with him, you don’t get to take that away from me like you _own_ me-”

“Nicaise is missing,” Auguste blurt out, tucking away anything he thought about his brother intimate with this stranger (not a stranger, not to Laurent), because he couldn’t focus on that right now, “I just – I took a nap, and when I woke up, he was gone.”

Laurent’s eyes widened. He breathed, “Oh god – I’m sure I know where he is.”

* * *

Damen drove them to the church Richard Delavere was currently stationed at. There was no parking, it was the center of the city – so Damen parked in a loading zone and put his hazards on with a quick mumbled prayer in Greek.

“Auguste,” Laurent breathed, “There!”

The relief Auguste felt when he saw Nicaise in the little park across the street from the looming stone church was a physical rush, down deep into his bones. He was sitting there, hunched over, feet still not quite able to touch the concrete path below him, and the three of them _ran_ to where he was.

Auguste wanted to grab Nicaise, to shake him, to pull him into the strongest hug of his life – but as he knelt before him, there was something shaken in his blue eyes.

“Nicaise?” Auguste breathed.

Behind him, the church bells clanged, three quarters past the hour.

Nicaise’s voice was very small, and he said, “He sent me away.”

Behind him, Laurent inhaled sharply, a silent connection Auguste would never really understand. It was different for him.

“I saw him in the gardens,” Nicaise said, “Walking like we used to together, and he – he sent me away.”

“Nicaise,” Auguste’s voice was rough, trembling.

Nicaise’s voice turned cruel, biting, and he hissed, “There was another boy with him. Some ugly _slut_ , and he’d _replaced me with him-_ ”

“Nicaise,” Auguste said, for a third time, the bottom dropping out from his stomach, “Is there – is there another boy with him now?”

“Who cares?” Nicaise snapped.

“I,” Laurent stammered, and Auguste realized he’d hardly remembered he was there. “We can’t – I can’t…”

“Laurent,” Damen breathed, “Breathe, please-”

“There’s someone with him _right now?_ ”

Laurent’s voice was high pitched, terrified like a child. Auguste’s hands were shaking. He turned to Nicaise, pleading, “Nicaise, love, he’s dangerous-”

“ _At least he fucking cared about me_!” Nicaise spat, eyes worn and tired in a way no eleven year olds’ should be. He looked so much older that it shook Auguste to his core.

“I’m going to be sick,” Laurent said. He took one step back, two – and then he was running, not away, but towards the arching church doors, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his side.

“Laurent!” Auguste and Damen called at the same time, but Nicaise reacted faster.

He took off after Laurent, face sheet white, shouting, “Laurent, wait-”

Auguste ran to catch up – he frankly didn’t give a damn what Damen did at this point, but Damen doggedly followed them both as Laurent clenched the ancient handle and tugged it with all his strength.

Nothing. It didn’t move.

Laurent’s face spasmed in agony, and he began pounding on the door so hard that bits of old paint chipped off and fell like specks of dried blood onto his hands.

“Don’t,” Nicaise shrieked, grabbing onto his elbow and tugging at it, “Laurent, don’t!”

“I can’t just do _nothing_ ,” Laurent snapped, shrugging him off. “I did nothing for so long – I can’t, I can’t let it happen again-”

“Laurent,” Auguste said, gently tugging Nicaise away, feeling the warmth of his hand against his stomach as Nicaise clutched at his shirt, somehow so young and so old at the same time. “Laurent, we need to – you don’t have to do this, let me-”

Nicaise’s hand clenched tighter into Auguste’s shirt. Laurent took a step back, breathing heavily, Damen staring slack-jawed ahead.

“Don’t,” Nicaise pleaded, sounding close to tears, “Don’t, please don’t, I don’t want him to be mad at me!”

Auguste wanted to throw up. Laurent covered his mouth and launched his whole body at the door, shoulder slamming into it like he wanted to burst right through.

“He’s dangerous,” Auguste repeated, voice seeming to come from outside his own body. “He’s – all I ever wanted was to keep you away from him, love. He _hurt you_.”

Laurent panted hard against the church door, eyes wild. Damen’s gaze narrowed at Auguste, but Auguste couldn’t care, not with the way Nicaise’s tiny hand was gripping his shirt, his cheeks round and belly still soft with childhood.

Nicaise’s face turned so ugly then that it nearly stilled the breath in Auguste’s lungs. He said, voice trembling with rage, “He _loves_ me.”

Auguste inhaled a sharp breath that stung as it went down. “Nicaise, no, that’s not love-”

“What do you know about love?” Nicaise shrieked, beating his fists into Auguste’s broad chest, the full force of him still feather-soft. “You never loved me! You left me!”

“No,” Auguste pleaded, the words sticking in his throat.

“I hate you!” Nicaise shrieked even louder, above the ringing in Auguste’s ears. “I fucking hate you! You left me with him, and now he’s all I have left! He’s all I have left and you’re trying to take him away from me!”

Big, baby tears filled Nicaise’s blue eyes. He sobbed, one more time, “You left me with him because you don’t love me. But he loves me! D-don’t take him away from me-”

“Nicaise,” Auguste breathed, blood thrumming in a roar. Bile rose in his throat. “I can fix this,” he mumbled, taking Nicaise’s fist in his hand. “I – I’ll fix this-”

The door opened. Laurent leapt back, eyes wild, and Auguste felt a swooping in his gut, like he’d gone over the crest of a rollercoaster.

Shadowed in the doorframe was a familiar blonde face, familiar cold blue eyes reflected in Laurent and Nicaise’s faces – but it wasn’t their uncle.

“P-papa?” Auguste breathed.

It had been nearly two decades since Auguste had last seen him, and there were fine lines in the edges of his handsome face that Auguste hadn’t seen before, speckles of silver in his light gold hair and finely trimmed beard.

Laurent once again looked like he was dying, clinging to Damen in the same way Nicaise clung to Auguste.

Aleron’s face smoothed over into his placid, politician smile. Auguste was reminded violently that as his children, he and Laurent only mattered in what they could do for his career. When his eyes passed over Nicaise, though, hands fisted in Auguste’s shirt, Auguste saw something change in them. The shock of recognition, a sudden explanation for those similar features, those blue eyes, that widow’s peak.

His voice was not entirely calm as he said, “Ah – Nicaise was… Nicaise was your boy?”

Laurent spoke first. “Papa, uncle brought a boy here. He’s in danger.”

Aleron looked to Laurent with the placid disdain of a stranger, an uncaring aloofness reserved only for a second son unable to fulfill the expectations of the first. Auguste’s heart bled for him.

“Father Delavere does important community work with local boys,” Aleron said. “Most of them have nowhere else to go.”

His eyes passed over Auguste’s face as he said that, a thunder-crack of horror going straight to his heart. Auguste raised his voice slightly. “ _You know what he means._ You know what uncle does. Nicaise saw uncle with a boy, with – please, you have to stop him. You _have_ to let us in.”

Aleron’s face betrayed nothing. He smiled, not unkindly, and Auguste wanted to scream. His skin itched, and were it not for Nicaise clinging to his body, he would have been clawing at his arms. Memories flooded back, that placid smile in place as Auguste shouted at him, called him all sorts of names just to have him say something, have him prove he _cared_ -

Aleron said, gently, “Auguste, my darling son, there must be some mistake. You know your uncle would simply never hurt anyone.”

Something inside Auguste cracked.

A well deep within him was punctured, buried deep, deep down, and suddenly it was a dark, sludge-thick trickle that turned into a rancid stream, pouring from him like the blood from his suddenly-bitten tongue.

There was-

_His knees hurt._

_A voice chuckled, “It wouldn’t be so bad if you stopped playing so rough, you know.” A hand cupping his cheek, brushing away the tear that fell from his eye unbidden. He was trembling all over. “Cleaned up like this, you’re almost pretty, you know that?”_

_Sitting at the dinner table afterwards, in the dark of the room without his mother. A nanny was fussing over the baby in the corner, wriggling like a little larva in his chair, like nothing Auguste had ever seen before. He made happy, baby noises, and Auguste couldn’t stomach the meal in front of him because something unpleasant sat heavily inside his belly, radiating out to the rest of him like a poison. When he looked at his hands, at his bitten fingers, they didn’t look real. They didn’t look like him._

_The baby was fussing. The nanny took him away after Aleron sent a sharp look in her direction – he was too busy to be distracted by the boy that had taken Auguste’s mama away._

_Somehow, Auguste knew that the nanny couldn’t hear this. Only papa._

_Still, though, his voice trembled as he said, “Papa – papa, s-something weird happened today.”_

_Aleron stared at him attentively. His brow furrowed, and Auguste let out a little breath of relief._

“ _It was with, um, with Uncle Richard,” Auguste continued, trying to still his trembling lower lip. Papa was always so angry when he cried, even at the funeral he’d stood silent as silent tears streamed down his cheeks, hissing, Auguste, noise._

_Aleron’s face remained impassive._

“ _He, um,” Auguste tried again, “He asked me to do something – something weird.”_

“ _Something weird,” Aleron said, flatly. He had pulled back, eyes darting about nervously. “That’s – Auguste.”_

“ _He asked me to kneel for him,” Auguste continued in a rush. “He asked me to, he – my knees hurt.” He blurted out, by way of finishing. He didn’t have the words to describe what had happened next, just the feeling of it, settling like a parasite beneath his breastbone. He hadn’t stopped shaking since he’d left the office, the lollipop in his mouth not quite masking what was left of the taste._

_Aleron said, “Ah. Well. If that’s it-”_

“ _No,” Auguste cut in, covering his mouth with his fingers, scrambling desperately for a vocabulary he didn’t yet possess. “No. That’s not it. No. He, um-”_

“ _I think I’ve heard enough,” Aleron said. He shook his head, eyes dark in the shadow of the dining room. “I think – I’ll speak to your uncle, but we can’t be making a fuss every time someone does something weird, can we?”_

“ _But,” Auguste’s heart sunk, frustrated tears in his eyes, “But, I, papa-”_

“ _Look at me,” Aleron said, “Look at me. Our family has been through a lot, recently. We can’t be shaking it up any more over a – yes. A misunderstanding, that’s what this must have been.”_

_Auguste bit his lip. Confusion, disappointment, and something sicker, deeper, more visceral swirled in his child’s mind. He opened his mouth, ready to argue back, but a look from Aleron stilled his tongue. It was something he’d never seen before, this combination of anger, of horror, of disappointment, all directed at him – and he didn’t know why. He sniffled, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand._

“ _No tears,” Aleron said, stern. Then, his voice and eyes softened, and he pat Auguste’s head, “There must be some mistake. You know your uncle would simply never hurt anyone.”_

Auguste didn’t remember swinging his fist forward, but all the same, it connected with Aleron’s sharp cheek in a burst of pain and crack of bone.

Time stood still as Aleron stumbled back.

As though in slow motion, his fist sliding through water, Auguste hit him again. Somewhere, someone was screaming. He didn’t know, he didn’t – he didn’t know what was going on, except that the cold pull of air into his lungs _hurt_ , and this whole time, Aleron let it happen.

His throat hurt, and he realized as he gripped his father’s impeccably pressed suit collar, it was because he was screaming.

“You vile, evil _bastard_ ,” Auguste screamed, spit flying into Aleron’s face. “You piece of shit, you know about him! You know! You’ve always known!”

“I,” Aleron stammered, a trickle of blood smeared on his chin, having the utter audacity to look surprised, “Auguste, Christ, what’s wrong with-”

“You know your brother fucks kids,” Auguste spat, “You know, because _I told you_ , and you said the same fucking thing to me, and you let it happen!”

Auguste hit him again, and again, and he thought he could keep hitting him forever – and then warm, dark arms wrapped around his waist, and Damen was physically dragging him backwards. Aleron scrambled away, wiping the blood from his chin.

Nicaise was screaming. Laurent was watching in terror. Auguste felt their eyes on him, but he couldn’t stop. It had been so long, buried so deep inside him, and now it gushed out of him like a geyser – pain, agony, betrayal.

“I don’t,” Aleron breathed, looking back and forth as Auguste writhed in Damen’s arms. “That’s not-”

“It must be a misunderstanding,” Auguste roared, “I guess I misunderstood him shoving his cock in my mouth.”

“Auguste,” Damen pleaded, “I know you’re angry, Jesus, I know, but please-”

Nicaise sobbed, “Papa, stop-”

“And then he got my brother,” Auguste screamed, “My brother, and my son. My _fucking son_ -” A sob burst out of him. He’d already disappointed his father so thoroughly, what did it matter if he cried now?

Then, just as sudden as his tears, Auguste started to laugh. He laughed, a loud, terrible sound, and tossed his head back, earning a pained grunt from Damen when the back of his head collided with his nose.

“Your brother’s stuck his dick in every single member of your family,” Auguste spat out, laughing, crying, and so miserable he thought his heart would stop. His voice rose again, and he felt something burst from him as he screamed for the whole world to hear, “Did you know that? Did you, huh papa? Did he fuck you too?”

“Auguste,” Aleron breathed, holding up his hand like Auguste was rabid.

“Auguste,” Damen said, voice low and gentle, “Auguste, please, you’re scaring them. You’re scaring them-”

And then someone else appeared in the doorway, and Laurent let out a high-pitched whine of terror.

Auguste looked up, vision blurry through his tears, and saw-

Father Delavere, Uncle, blinked as he surveyed the scene in front of him. His eyes crinkled in some imitation of a smile, and behind him, a boy no older than ten tugged at his sleeve.

“Ah,” Uncle said, softly, “It’s been so long since all of my family was here. Auguste, Laurent, how you’ve grown.”

Damen let Auguste go in utter shock. His face was murderous. Auguste’s knees gave out from underneath him and pain radiated up his thighs as they hit the hard ground below.

There was a roaring in his ears, screaming like steel caught beneath a train.

Auguste looked up at Uncle, suddenly eleven years old again.

He couldn’t breathe.

His eyes were wet.

He felt completely torn apart, inside and out, and he couldn’t tell if the pain in his legs was real or imagined.

“Auguste,” came a sudden, soft voice, “Auguste, we need to get out of here.”

Laurent.

“What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with papa?”

Nicaise.

 _I’m sorry,_ Auguste thought, tears wet and terrible down his cheeks. He couldn’t stop looking at uncle, at that placid smile. He felt his hand in his hair, cupping his face. _I’m sorry. I never meant this to happen. I failed you both-_

“Damen, sweetheart, help me, help me move him-”

Sobbing. Nicaise was sobbing. Auguste had tried to protect him but he’d been to ashamed to tell anyone why, so Victoire had taken him to church anyway, and now Nicaise was-

Nicaise was just like him, and he sobbed, “I’m scared, I’m really scared, what’s happening-”

“ _Stay the fuck away from him, Aleron-”_

Damen.

“ _Stay the fuck away from my brother-”_

Laurent.

Auguste didn’t see them.

Uncle’s smile was cold as he closed the door, behind the little boy, scampering off into the park.

Auguste didn’t remember much after that.

* * *

“Hey, Victoire, thanks so much for bringing Nicaise over this week,” came Laurent’s soft voice, tired and strained. Auguste blinked, letting the words float up to him from the open window, and shifted deeper under the covers.

“Of course.” A pause. “Laurent, did – did you know?”

Auguste shut his eyes.

Laurent, presumably shaking his head. “No one did. He never talked about it. He never – never told anyone.”

Victoire sighing. Auguste imagined her running her hand down her face, just like she used to when they were together. It had always seemed so simple with her – she was soft, gentle. Being with her was easy when so much of his life was so complicated.

He’d ruined that, too, hadn’t he?

Footsteps clambered up the steps and Auguste tried to rearrange himself into something more respectable than… Whatever it was he’d been doing recently. He halfway managed it before Nicaise pushed the door open, cheeks flushed.

Nicaise stuck his tongue out at him. “You look terrible.”

“I’m old,” Auguste smiled self-deprecatingly at him.

“Ugh,” Nicaise sniffed. “I don’t ever want to be old.” He bit his lip, eyes downcast. Then, he blurt out, tiny voice full of accusation, “You’re going to leave me again.”

Auguste blinked. “No, no-”

“Shut up,” Nicaise said, voice cracking. “I know the last time you had a problem, you left. And you’re having problems again. I know how mama gets when you’re having problems.” He set his lips in a pout, unconvincingly trying to seem nonchalant. “Whatever, it’s not like I care. I guess everyone leaves.”

“Nicaise,” Auguste breathed, crying hard not to cry. He’d been crying a lot recently, like his body was making up for all the tears he’d kept in. “Come here, please.”

Nicaise stepped forward, tentatively. When Auguste opened his arms, he thought for a moment that Nicaise might refuse – but he didn’t, and the relief Auguste felt at being able to hold his son was palpable.

Auguste wrapped his arms around those thin shoulders, kissing his forehead where it pressed messily against his cheek. He tried not to think of the nightmares he’d had since the church, looking in the office mirror while on his knees and finding that he had Nicaise’s curly brown hair and upturned nose, watching his own violation play out on his son’s body.

How could he survive this? How, knowing what Nicaise had gone through, knowing what Laurent had gone through, knowing it was because he’d been gone from their lives and like a spider his uncle had snuck into the space he’d left? His web would stay firmly lodged inside of them, sticky and ugly, coating every bit of them with them frantically trying to rip it away, just like he had.

“I promise you I won’t leave you,” Auguste said, eyelashes sticky with wetness.

Nicaise snorted disbelievingly, but he didn’t let go.

* * *

“Hey – hey, yeah, sweetheart, I saw the issue that just came out. It’s – yeah. Yeah. It’s hard to read, you know? I did, though. I did, just for you.”

A laugh.

“Don’t you call me sweet in public, it’ll ruin my reputation. It’s way easier if everyone believes I’m an icy bitch. Yes – Yes, I know, I didn’t have to, if it was too much. Yes, darling, darling. Darling. Damen – you don’t need to coddle me, you know. You’re worse than Auguste.”

Laurent’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I can’t believe, after so long, that he might actually be going to jail. That he might – I can’t believe it. I,” a wet laugh, soft and broken. “Don’t tell me I did that. That makes me sound brave. I’m not – no, Damen, I’m _not_ – Christ you’re a pain to argue with. No, I will _not_ just admit you’re right then. No. Nope. Still not doing it.” A sigh. “I guess I do feel a little brave. Like I stood up to him. Like I got back some of the power he had over me.”

“I know, sweetheart. I miss you too. You’ll – You’ll have to make it up to me then, won’t you? When you get home from work tomorrow, it’ll be – you’ll have to cuddle me all night.” Laurent’s laugh was startled, pleased at his own daring. “Yes. All night.”

A pause, the slow, shaky intake of breath. “All day, huh? Messages from survivors? I can’t even fathom how many, I… I feel like this has defined my life, what happened to me. Even if you also consider Nicaise, and – and Auguste, to think that we’re only a small part of his. A small part of even just Uncle’s victims.” Laurent sobbed, phone clutched in his hand. “Look at me, Damen, look at me. I’m so fucked up from all of this, and I’m such a small part of it that I might as well be a drop in the ocean. I’m such a small part of it, but it’s such a big part of me.”

“Thank you, baby. Right. I need to remember that.” A pause. Another sigh. “He’s alright. I’ll be making some lunch for him soon. He hasn’t really gotten out of bed in a few days.” A pause. “Yes, I’m worried too. Nicaise is worried, though he won’t admit it. I think everything just hit him all at once. It’s hard, keeping everything inside like he did. I was bitter, you know? For a long time, I was angry that Auguste wasn’t perfect like I remembered him, that he was messy and flawed. It must have started right after I was born, didn’t it? That whole him, holding it inside… I feel like I’m losing him, Damen. He hasn’t been the same since the church.”

“No, no, baby, don’t leave. Don’t leave. I’m fine. I’m here with Auguste. He – he’s not ready to read your team’s article yet, but I’m here with him. Yes, I – at least. I have him. I have you. Even with everything, I get to be happy. That’s such a victory, isn’t it? Such a victory.”

“Okay, baby. I’ll talk to you later. I love you too.”

* * *

“I brought you some lunch,” Laurent said, sliding the tray with a hot bowl of tomato soup onto the bedside table in Auguste’s room. “It’s just heated up from a can. Damen’s the one who knows how to cook.”

Auguste tried for a smile, but it fell flat. He couldn’t muster up the energy for much of anything these days.

Laurent sighed. Worry danced behind his eyes, though he didn’t complain. Auguste bit his lip. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not now, not when Laurent and Nicaise needed him.

“Nicaise keeps asking to read the article,” Laurent murmured. “I recommended he didn’t, but of course, he could always just look it up himself. I can’t stop him. I think he’s scared to, though. It mentions me by name.” He shook his head. “I think it’s good he didn’t talk to Damen. He’s too young to have that hanging over him for the rest of his life. At least now he’ll be able to heal in private.”

Auguste’s eyes filled with tears. Laurent blinked, like he did every time Auguste had cried, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

He shifted on the bed, pulling Auguste into his chest, and pressed a firm kiss to the top of his head.

“It’s hard,” he murmured, “I know. I know, Auguste.”

“This would never have happened if I hadn’t left,” Auguste whispered, for what must have been the half-dozenth time.

Laurent pursed his lips. He tried a new strategy: “Is that you talking, or is it uncle?”

Auguste squeezed his eyes shut. His cheeks and eyelashes were wet, and Laurent rocked him back and forth, back and forth, the soup sitting untouched on the side table.

“I love Nicaise so much,” Auguste whispered, “Laurent, I’m scared. What if – what if he ends up like me?”

“Auguste,” Laurent murmured.

Auguste grabbed him suddenly, looking up into his grief-stricken face desperately. “Please, Laurent,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “Please. Don’t let him end up like me.”

Laurent didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

He simply held him in his arms, sharing in his grief, in the grief of their entire family.

He hoped one day Auguste might understand it wasn’t hopeless for him, either.


End file.
